


In Which I Vent But It's through DTK

by Starshearted (cthulhucorp)



Series: Soul Eater Ficlets + Drabbles [11]
Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Not Post It, Self-Harm, honestly this is shit but i worked too hard on it to just, so here it is it sucks and its ooc and idfc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 13:44:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11149644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthulhucorp/pseuds/Starshearted
Summary: [fingerguns and walks backwards into hell]





	In Which I Vent But It's through DTK

The son of Death had a bad habit. One that had stuck around for years, prompted in the beginning only by a scratch that had landed itself on one side of his arm and not the other. Years of mental illness had bared itself down upon him like the silence of a church and ripped through fragile skin with the precision of a scalpel held in a doctors hands. Death the Kidd had fallen into the cycle of self-destructive harming, kept under tight lock and key prompted by years of experience in hiding it away and controlling the urge to fall into a schedule of destruction. But a lock can be picked, a lock can rust and melt away, even once the key has been swallowed and long since lost.

Elizabeth just so happens to be around the first time the lock truly falls from the safety doors, and in it's opening it leaves a wake of destruction that attempts to hide itself within the encouragements to go and hang out with their friends, the little reassurances that he will be fine, home alone and away from all that is outside. He will be fine, he will be fine. Liz feels like a fool for her belief in his carefully constructed lies, feels the weight of her terrible decision to leave come crashing from the moment she steps inside of the manor. All lights have been turned off, the dim light of the evening barely filtering in through the closed shades. It feels wrong, in all sense of the word. Kidd is never one to merely hide away in his bedroom for an entire night. With that idea in her mind she walks up the tremendous stairs to the second levels and calls for him like a bird in the morning, though the response she receives is not a cheerful bird chirp but a loud bang, a fumbling noise, something scraping against the ground. She turns her attention to the large, thick oak door that leads to her meisters room, her essentially adoptive younger brother. A breath of relief and an incline of curiosity forces her to step fore ward and reach for the door, the silver and cool handle turning against her skin she opens the door inwards.

The doors have fallen from their hinges in wake of that destructive tendency Kidd had hidden.

The large window, across from the door and behind the bed, lies partially open and partially closed. A single panel has been opened, a single panel of curtain hanging perilously from a rod far above, which itself lies crookedly against the wall. All beside it lays closed, blocking out most of the the early evening light. A dresser to the left of the door Liz enters from is, to put it blunty, tipped over. The drawers ripped from within, clothes now tossed about the room like a ship at sea. Papers from the desk beside the bed scatter across the floor alongside the articles of clothing, notes and letters and reports, notices of completed missions and ripped out book pages, their leather bound counterparts laying as empty husks on the oak desk. In the middle of the grand mess sits a boy.

He is fragile. He is small. He is the son of Death, and he is a mess himself that fumbles with the razor in his hand, slender fingers struggling with the plastic casing around the prized goods, the sharpness that awaits to completed the mess of a man, to add his blood to the destruction and chaos. Death the Kidd is muttering and cursing to himself, fingers slipping against the blades and scratching themselves open, the reaper's frustration growing with every failed attempt to crack open the damn thing. It is a simple task and he can not complete it, is lost within all the destruction both around him and within him.

Elizabeth Thompson has never thought of her meister in the way she does now. He has always been strong, always been courageous and smart, always certain ( for the most part ) and unwavering. Those ideas are smashing themselves to bits with a mallet at the moment, Liz realizes, blue gaze staring wide and uncertain. She is numb to her legs carrying her towards the panicking young boy, just vaguely aware she is leaning beside him. Kidd himself does not become aware of her presence until those warm, human fingers touch his own, daring to lay themselves against the razor sitting in his hand. All is frozen. All is silent, those panicked mutters falling still, though the shaking of his body remains. The golden orange gaze of the reaper meets the scared blue eyes of his human weapon.

"Let go," he squeaks, finally, through the heavy silence. His voice is small and wavering, and fingers wrapping tightly around the prized possession in his hand.

"I can't," Elizabeth states, taking her own firm grip over his. Her other hand comes up, gently resting against his balled up fist. Gentle. And then suddenly not as much, attempting to pry his fingers off of it. "You need to let go of it."

"I don't want to," the son of Death hisses in return, attempting to pull his hand away from hers. He is caught, straining to not permit Liz to tear his fingers from the item in his hand, and straining to get her fingers off of him. The touch is too much, too much, too much, like the thoughts that scream and run around in his head like rampant little monsters. "Let go of me!"

"Not until you let go of the razor!"

"Let go of me!" he repeats, louder. The cold tears begin to pile in the corners of his eyes, golden orbs wild. "Let go! Let go! Let go!" The touch is too much, too much, too much. It becomes much more than just "Too much" and Kidd finds himself releasing his grip, his focus changing from keeping the razor in his grasp to shoving at the hand around his, which willingly releases itself upon Elizabeth gaining the oh so prized razor.

She throws it to the side with no care whatsoever.

"Kidd," she simply states, unsure of where to go, of what to do.

"I'm sorry," the reaper cries, bringing his knees to his chest.

Elizabeth softens.

"Don't tell my father-"

"I don't plan on it."

"He'd be so upset-"

"It's okay, Kidd."

"He'd never forgive me-"

"I won't tell him anything."

There is a new lock and key.

"Do you promise?"

A new person to make sure things stay where they need to be.

"I promise," she nods, and then pauses. "Kidd, promise me you're going to talk to me next time."

"Okay."

"Try again, Kiddo."

"...I promise."

"Why don't we go.. watch a movie, okay? I'll clean all this up later."


End file.
